Redemption
by fabala4077
Summary: After accepting death, Silas finds that he has been given a second chance at life. Will his new life lead him to his past despair, or to the beauty of redemption?
1. Chapter I: Despair

**This is my very first fanfic! Please give me feedback - I know this scene has been written and rewritten a thousand times, but this is my take. Plus, there's more… This will not be a Mary Sue and will hopefully, instead, focus on Silas and his journey to redemption. Also, I'm kind of busy and have a limited attention span, so I might not ever finish this. If you'd like me to, please review! I could use it… Also, any criticisms, suggestions, or reviews of my writing style will be welcomed as well!**

**Thanks!**

**-Fabala**

**Chapter I: Despair**

Mist settled low upon Kensington Gardens. Silas could feel the tiny droplets of moisture floating in the air as he quietly kneeled on the wet grass. The bullet wound beneath his ribs was still oozing blood. Biting back the pain, he lifted trembling hands to the heavens in prayer, pleading, begging forgiveness. The clouds overhead were a pure white, as pale as his skin, but they hurt his sensitive eyes. He blinked back tears, but could not bring himself to look away. The image of Bishop Aringarosa, his mentor, his savior, falling onto the cold pavement, a bullet in his chest, could not be erased from his mind. A sudden upwelling of remorse and guilt, of unbearable shame for his actions, rose like a tide within him. Through clenched teeth, he could still feel the warmth of the officer's gun in his hand, could remember the touch of the trigger beneath his finger.

_We are betrayed, my son._

Silas prayed, using every remaining ounce of his being to beg forgiveness. He could feel the bullet wound more clearly now, an aching, throbbing pain that was now slowly spreading upwards, towards his heart.

_Pain is good,_ he repeated.

_Pain is good!_

But the familiar mantra had no meaning for him. Silas bit back tears as he discovered what he had always known: he was alone. Pain could not save him from a lifetime of purgatory. The pain served as a constant reminder, not only of Jesus' suffering on the cross, but of the pain of his past life. What he truly needed, beyond all else, was the healing power of redemption.

It was too late.

As the blood continued to flow from his wound, Silas felt as if his soul, his life's force, was also slowly leaving his body. His skin was a sallow white now, veins showing blue on the pallid, translucent flesh. His face was ashen, a haggard gray, and his thin lips were chalky with dried spittle.

As he became progressively weaker, Silas now felt profoundly cold, colder then he had felt in a long time. The pale light of hope, too, was leaving him. He was alone.

Fighting a sudden bout of dizziness, Silas collapsed downwards, clutching his wound with one hand, and supporting himself in the muddy grass with the other. His body was quaking with some unseen trepidation, a force he could no longer control. The light had nearly left him now.

_Soy fantasma._

_Je suis un spectre._

_I am a ghost._

He collapsed now, shivering, onto the cold grass. The steady drizzle felt icy, a final reminder of the freezing emptiness of his soul. Drawing his dripping cloak around him, Silas could feel himself slipping away, into another time and place.

And yet the world had never seemed so clear.

Finally allowing the tears to flow, Silas prayed for forgiveness. _God, I need to be pardoned. I am unworthy…_

Bishop Aringarosa, bleeding from the wound.

The gun, clasped in his hand.

The prison walls collapsing around him.

His father's face, grinning at him from the darkness.

_Tu es un spectre._

_A ghost._

Closing blurred eyes in recession, Silas said his final prayer.

_Hail Mary, full of grace…_


	2. Chapter II: Sympathy

**Here we go, chickadees! Second chapter! Thank you to the three reviews I've already gotten… I can always use more J Remember, I love love love criticism!**

**Chapter II: Sympathy**

"Mummy! Mummy! Come look!"

Mrs. Neilson looked up, surprised, from her novel. She sighed, carefully replaced the bookmark, and did her best to acquire an inquisitive expression.

"All right, Pen," she smiled. The child was ecstatic at the attention. She pulled her mother's arm hurriedly, pointing towards the site of the discovery.

"Penny," her mother inquired, laughing a bit at the urgency of the situation, "What is it you've found?"

Penelope's eyes widened with anxiety. She was a small child, but her perseverance was astounding. "Mummy," she breathed, excited. "He's right over there. Hurry, quick, we have no time to lose!"

Mrs. Neilson scooped up Katherine May, her second daughter in her arms and grasped Penny's hand, eyes twinkling in mock enthusiasm. They set off across the park, mother at a quick stride, Penny beside her at a running gallop. It was a cold day for an outing in the park, but their Saturday morning strolls were a tradition, however simple. At least the rain had stopped, Mrs. Neilson thought gratefully. Penelope didn't mind the rain, but the mud and grass stains it accompanied made for extra laundry. With two young daughters, extra laundry was the last thing she needed.

"Pen," she breathed, "Where are we going?"

"Right over there, Mummy," the girl replied.

She pointed into a secluded hollow near the central lake. Here, the landscape was dotted with trees and bushes, still dripping from the early rain. The trio struggled down a slippery hillside to the sunken circle, and Mrs. Neilson was surprised to find how little light penetrated here. The evergreen trees were lush and grand, their stoic silence lending a still, hushed atmosphere to the place. Mrs. Neilson suppressed an unexpected shiver, pushing the morbid thoughts from her mind. The hollow felt like a tomb.

"There he is, Mummy! A fallen angel."

Mrs. Neilson stifled a gasp; she clasped Penny's hand tightly in fear of the gruesome sight before her. A figure lay collapsed in the center of the hollow, huddled in the fetal position on the sodden grass. Even from this distance, she could see the smears of a thick, dark liquid on the ground.

Penny was babbling, "I saw his skin and how pale it looks. He must be an angel, but he doesn't have wings. I suppose he lost them and that's why he fell! We must help him get them back…"

"Stay here!" her mother hissed, carefully setting Katherine in Penny's arms. "Watch your sister!"

Mrs. Neilson approached the figure in shock; discovering a bloody body in the grass was not an experience she wished to repeat. It was probably male, judging from the size of the body and the blurred facial features. Whichever it was had worn a sodden, ragged wool robe that wrapped tightly around the still frame. Mrs. Neilson glimpsed his face and stifled an exclamation of fear. The face was an sallow paper white, tiny veins showing blue on the thin eyelids and ears. The hair was cropped short, a simple cut, but was nearly as white as the sallow skin. Both hair and face were damp, streaked with a mixture of mud, rainwater, and blood.

Definitely male, she concluded, biting back unexpected tears. Mind racing, she placed a trembling hand on his cheekbone. The tear-streaked face was raging with fever.

"Dear God!" she exclaimed, pulling her hand back as if from a furnace. Whoever it was still lived. Carefully, Mrs. Neilson heaved the body over, allowing the face to gaze, unseeing, to the gray sky. One of his hands clasped, rather tightly, at his side, pinching the blood soaked robe in a sort of morbid, living rigormortis.

Mrs. Neilson gritted her teeth, drawing back the robe to glimpse the wound underneath. She could not see it for the blood. Panic seized her as she looked back to her daughters.

"Girls, help! Find someone!"

Penny suddenly grasped the seriousness of the situation. She bit her lip, still holding Katherine May. "Help! Someone help us!"

Slowly, but surely, people came. A burly jogger in sweats puffed over first, then a middle-aged woman and her schnauzer. They were soon joined by a teenage couple, then more.

Mrs. Neilson didn't look up from the man. Instead, frightened, she felt for a pulse, covered his wounds, and grasped his icy hand in her own.

"Er… is there somethin' oi can do, Ma'am?" the jogger had approached her, an expression of genuine worry on his face.

"He… he's hurt. We need help," Mrs. Neilson whispered.

"Oy! You 'eard 'er! Some bloke call an ambulence!"

She found her voice quickly, though it sounded weak and tremulous.

"Someone give me something to stop the bleeding. And a coat or something - he's freezing."

The jogger restated her message, much louder and in his accent. Mrs. Neilson didn't move; she exhaled in dread of the man's fate. It was not like her to care so much, but the sheer drama of the scene somehow moved her. She was not a Godly woman, but she found herself in prayer, begging for the man's safety. Biting back tears, she gave the pale hand a firm squeeze. It didn't respond.


	3. Chapter III: Connected

**Chapter Three: **Connected

Mrs. Neilson didn't feel hungry as she left the office building where she worked. In the year since she'd taken the London job, she had often missed lunch, content simply to bury herself in work and hope to forget the bustle of the outside world. It was sometimes easier, she found, to block out life's little trials than to bother to face them like anyone else. Even as she did it, Mrs. Neilson cursed herself for her cowardice.

_Fool, _her mother's voice hissed at her, _How can you ever expect to heal if you lock yourself in that stuffy office all day? I raised a fighter, not a quitter! _

What her mother didn't realize was that it was a fight to even go to the office; the only thing that helped her get up in the morning was the thought of her daughters, the rays of light penetrating the darkness of her thoughts. Mother never understood that the seclusion was the safest way to fight the madness. It wasn't quitting; it was the simple choice she made.

_Happy, Mother? _ She thought bitterly as she made her way down the busy sidewalk, towards the internet café where she sometimes dined. In truth, Mrs. Neilson didn't think she could bear to spend another lunch hour indoors; today, she felt like walking. It was a cloudy Monday, two days after the dreadful incident in the park. Mrs. Neilson had waited patiently for the ambulance, watched solemnly as they loaded the poor man into the back, and done her best to answer the police's questions. Pen and Kath had behaved very well, as if they understood perfectly the morose nature of the events.

"But what will happen to the angel?" Pen had inquired nervously as they left the park.

"The doctors will make him better."

"I hope he finds his wings again."

Mrs. Neilson didn't mention that, as the paramedics checked the man's weak pulse, they did not expect a recovery.

"He's lost a lot of blood. He probably won't make it."

Her eyes filled with tears at the memory, and she angrily cursed herself for being so emotional. She had done everything she could to help the man, and no amount of tears or prayers could possibly restore strength to his broken body. Yet, deep down, Mrs. Neilson couldn't shake the guilty feeling that her help wasn't enough; she had glimpsed the pain on the man's ashen face, a pain that seemed much deeper than physical. No one should have to endure such pain…

_Shut up! _She silenced herself. _You've done all you can do. _

But that didn't stop her from changing her course, heading instead towards the hospital. _Emily, you're insane. _

"Excuse me, I'm here to see the victim of a shooting…"

The reception nurse gave her a bored expression. "Name?"

"I'm not quite sure…"

The nurse rolled her eyes. "This is a hospital, ma'am, not a zoo. We don't allow uninvited visitors in our Intensive Care Unit without the proper pass and identifi-"

"Thank you."

Mrs. Neilson made to leave the lobby, than veered towards the lift marked "Visitors."

_Intensive Care Unit: Floor 3_

The short ride upstairs seemed an eternity. Mrs. Neilson fiddled nervously with her ring, wondering what the hell she thought she was doing. The lift doors opened into a comfortable waiting room. She suppressed a shiver as she stepped onto the institutional linoleum of the unit. Mrs. Neilson had never liked hospitals; they always seemed to be hiding something, concealing the pain and suffering behind comfortable chairs and couches, covering the stench of disinfectant and death with cheery lights and potted plants.

The reception nurse seemed much more friendly, flashing Mrs. Neilson a warm smile as she approached the desk.

"May I help you?"

"Yes. Er… I'm here to see a man… he was brought here on Saturday. I don't know if he's still here."

The nurse smiled sadly. "Oh yes. The shooting. I'm afraid one of the victims has left us; the other four are recovering."

Mrs. Neilson's heart gave a nervous leap. "I… erm, one of them was quite badly off. He was found in the park…"

"He's recovering, slowly," the nurse's brows knitted in confusion, "That's odd. You're not the only one inquiring after him. Some people from the police have been here already."

Mrs. Neilson stammered, "Er, may I have his room number, please?"

"Certainly," the nurse gave her a stern look, "Although ,I must ask you, if you intend to skulk around like that dreadful French policeman, your time will be best spent elsewhere. He's still unconscious."

"Oh, no." she replied, wringing her hands in anxiety, "It's just, I wanted to check up on him, make sure he's all right…"

The nurse smiled. "Of course. Room 3270."

"Thank you."

Mrs. Neilson hurried down the linoleum corridor, wondering again what the hell she thought she was doing. The walls and ceiling of room 3270 were a stark, institutional white. The shades were open, allowing weak rays of sunlight to fall across the figure on the bed. Mrs. Neilson stifled a gasp as she approached the man's bedside.

He lay peacefully on his back, clad in a thin hospital gown. His skin was a translucent, paper white, veins showing blue on the thin wrists and neck. The face, before blood-spattered and contorted in pain, bore a more serene expression than it had in the park. Thin tubes ran from his forearm to a machine by the wall; it beeped regularly as it monitored his weakened pulse.

Mrs. Neilson took a seat beside the bed, exhaling in wonder at the sight before her. She felt the warm tears brimming in her eyes, but made no attempt to brush them away. She spoke, barely a whisper.

"What happened to you?"

"An unfortunate accident."

She looked up, surprised, to the voice that greeted her. The newcomer wheeled himself over to the bed; he was an aging man, of ample build and stature. His harsh features expressed an air of kindness, worry, and a proud dignity. Mrs. Neilson found herself locked within his gaze, his deep brown eyes penetrating into her soul. He was slightly balding, but made up for that fact with the dark, bushy eyebrows that were knit tightly in confusion and worry. She was surprised that such a powerful man could possibly be confined to a wheelchair at his age, but quickly noticed the explanation: this man, too, wore a hospital gown. Mrs. Neilson stood up, quickly, and retreated from her place at the bedside.

"I'm terribly sorry sir," she stammered, "Please excuse me. I was only…"

"Not at all, my child," he halted her with a wave of his hand, "Please stay." His accent was soft, American heavily riddled with Spanish and Italian.

Hesitantly, she returned to her seat. This man expressed kindness and a sympathetic understanding. Nonetheless, she wrung her hands nervously, searching for an excuse for her awful intrusion.

"I'm sorry for the intrusion. I just wanted to check on him, well, mainly for my girls' sake. They've been so worried since we found him in the park, and…"  
"I understand perfectly," he smiled, "Witness to atrocities can make humanitarians out of us all. Silas would be glad to know he was in such good hands."

At this, the man glanced to the sleeping patient and signed audibly. Mrs. Neilson sensed great sorrow and pain in his manner. He continued.  
"He's in stable condition now, thank the Lord. He had been bleeding for so long the doctors weren't sure they could pull him through it. Thankfully, Silas has an unnaturally strong spirit, especially for one with a life such as his," he smiled weakly, "I am Bishop Manuel Aringarosa. I am pleased to meet my friend's savior."


	4. Chapter IV: Awakening

**Hey readers!! I'm sorry this and the last chapter were so slow in coming. School started, and then I became lost in all that stuff I'm supposed to be doing, and I completely forgot about the stuff I actually wanted to do. So here, at last, is chapter four. More Silas in this one!! Please read and review (I love reviews!!), and be sure to offer any criticisms or suggestions you may have. I have a general idea of the story from here on in, but I could use any details or whatever you'd like to give me.**

**Oh, and I suppose I don't really own Silas or Aringarosa. However much I'd like to. Oh shucks.**

**Chapter IV: Awakening **

Silas was first aware of an electronic beeping. It whispered to him softly at first, but became steadily more bothersome as he slowly swam to consciousness again. The narcotic-soaked cloth of sleep still weighted heavily upon his eyes and face. He felt groggy, scattered; he couldn't focus, and that would have normally frightened. Now, all he felt was exhaustion. The pillow beneath his head was soft, heavenly. His eyelids had somehow become affixed to weights, forcing them to close…

The same electronic beeping.

His arms were relaxed, like dead anchors, at his sides. He was facing up, eyes to heaven, and had never felt so comfortable…

A sudden, aching pain tore through his side, below his ribs. Silas exhaled, a silent hiss of agony. The beeping was getting louder. A blinding light had invaded his calm state of relaxation, forcing his eyes open, slowly…

The first thing he saw was blurred. He blinked stupidly, groggily waiting for it to clear itself. His pale arm, stretched out beside him, blue veins showing on the pasty skin. A thin tube ran from under a nylon bandage at his writs, upwards towards the monitor at his right…

The electronic beeping.

Unbearable pain.

Hospital.

Silas quickly drew in a breath; the air hurt as it rushed past his lungs, through his diaphragm. A clammy hand groped weakly to the source of the pain, trembling, feeling the lining of the bandage attached there.

The explosion of gunfire.

Freezing, the grass of a clearing.

_Hail Mary, full of grace. _

His eyes widened. He was filled with fear as the memories came soaring back to him, through his fevered brain, scattered images, sounds, emotions he could only begin to describe.

An airplane.

Prison.

_We are betrayed, my son._

Silas jerked his head to the side, squeezing his eyes shut in horror. A pained, guttural groan escaped his throat, penetrating the maddening silence around him. He couldn't face this. What he wouldn't give for more of that groggy stupor, the free, floating comfort that had covered him moments before…

A pagan church, full of tombs.

Paintings.

Job 38:11

"Calm yourself, my son,"

The unexpected voice cut like a knife through the chaotic displacements of his mind. Silas opened his eyes, slowly allowing himself to accustom to the bright light. He would have known that voice anywhere.

"Father."

Silas was surprised at the weakness in his hoarse voice.

"Silas, my son."

Bishop Aringarosa sat in a wheelchair by his bedside. He was dressed in a thin hospital gown, but had lost none of his characteristic dignity. He reached out a hand and gripped Silas's pale, trembling palm in his own. Silas blinked stupidly.

"You've been injured, Father."

The Bishop's features melted into an expression of pity and worry. His brow furrowed, and he bowed his head for a moment. He glanced up again.

"So, I'm afraid, have you, my son."

Silas glanced around the stark hospital room, searching for some sign of the events that had transpired. Confusion still set upon his mind like a thick fog, clouding all rational thoughts or memories. He blinked, willing himself to remember. Nothing.

He gulped, feeling his dry throat constrict painfully with the effort. Silas stared up towards the ceiling, and expression of confusion playing on his face.

"How… what happened to us, Father?"

Looking up to the heavens, the Bishop sighed. Seeing his pained expression, Silas gripped with fear. It was not good. Bishop Aringarosa returned his gaze to his son, the soldier of God, the fallen angel.

"We were betrayed, my son. The Teacher had forsaken us. I'm so very sorry…"

Silas's eyes darted to the Bishop in alarm. Clouded memories now came tumbling back to him, policemen, panic, fleeing the London Opus Dei building. A gun in his hand. The Bishop, behind him. Gunshots…

Silas gasped, red eyes instantly filling with tears. Attempting to silence the demons inside him, he shook his head frantically. _This cannot be true! _Yet he knew his memory spoke the truth: they were betrayed, exposed, and he had injured the Bishop…

"Father…" he whispered, shocked. The tears pooling in his eyes suddenly overflowed, streaking down his face like raindrops down a cool pane. "What have I done?"

"I do not at all blame you, Silas. You were misled. I should have kept a closer eye on you. The Teacher was a fraud." Bishop Aringarosa paused to breathe, attempting to subdue the rage building within him. Enough blood had been spilt, already. "He assured me there would be no killing. I only now see how wrong I was to trust him."

Silas's world was crumbling around him. With the Teacher behind his actions, he had never questioned their morality. He also had assumed safety, not just for himself but also for the Bishop. Without The Teacher…

A sudden spasm ran through his body. Silas winced at the pain at his side, but his eyes never moved from the Bishop. Through clenched teeth, he hissed, "B-but… the police?"

The Bishop hung his head in shame; Silas had never seen him so distraught before. It broke Aringarosa's heart to see Silas, his precious angel, fallen like Lucifer from his grace. His friend had been lost, a frightened lamb, before he was offered shelter and security from the outside world. The Bishop had long ago turned Silas's fate to the hands of God, certain that, with the faith of Opus Dei and their unlikely friendship to guide him, the man would somehow manage an alteration from his early ways. The events of the past few days, however… Aringarosa saw only a mess of damaged thread, the unraveled remnants of his fragile tapestry. He only hoped through faith and friendship to salvage it. Voice breaking gravely, Aringarosa spoke.

"I am so very sorry, my son. I had nowhere else to turn. The police have arrested the Teacher, so likely a confession will lighten our charges. Silas, I am prepared to take all responsibility for these events, but you must understand that we are now under their custody. They may want to ask some questions…"

Silas stared, unblinking, at the low ceiling. His lips wavered, jaw clenched in a set expression of fear and shock. The bullet wound in his side had begun to throb painfully, a dull, aching sensation that sent waves of agony rippling up his tense body. For years, The Bishop had acted has his protector, his shield from the horrors of the past. The words Aringarosa spoke made little sense in his mind, as if through the pain and confusion they had become warped and muddled.

Police?

Distant memories, long forced out of mind, now came thundering back. A grimy prison cell, freezing in purgatory, the taunting jibes of the prison guards, shining their flashlights into his weak eyes, blinding him to their cruel abuse.

_Andorra._

Silas's muscled tightened, and he slowly returned his eyes to The Bishop's gaze. He spoke, voice a hoarse, guttural plea of agony.

"Which police?"

The Bishop paused a moment before responding in a whisper. "The French."

Silas felt his throat constrict painfully, his heart convulsing in his chest like a wounded animal. He blinked tiredly to the ceiling, refusing to look at the Bishop. When he spoke again, it was quietly and coldly.

"I'm sorry, Father. I'm feeling a little tired now. I think I would like to sleep some."

Aringarosa sighed, the exhaustion and worry apparent on his lined face. Slowly, he turned in his wheelchair and laboriously began to wheel himself out. He stopped once, speaking suddenly.

"I am more sorry than you can believe, Silas. We will talk later, once things have calmed. I will see what I can do in the meantime…"

Silas nodded quickly, tears pooling again in his red eyes. He winced at the pain in his side, cursing himself for his weakness. Now the Bishop, too, was upset. He murmured a silent prayer under his breath, begging for forgiveness. A doctor came, offering kind words of encouragement and injecting a needle of warm, comforting morphine into his arm. Still lost in prayer, sleep found him and he retreated once again into that calm, worriless stupor.


End file.
